


In the name of love!

by iiscos



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, a deviation from my usual obikin angst, cheesy sex pollen trope with a twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6915169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The cruiser carrying Ventress has crashed among the densest canopies of the Felucian jungle, and no aphrodisiacal flower is going to deter Anakin and Obi-Wan in their pursuit of the Sith apprentice. </i>
</p><p>Or the one where Obi-Wan falls into a toxic flowerbed resulting in unforeseen consequences, and Anakin frustratingly is the only one immune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love is a many splendored thing

**Author's Note:**

> The first half of my entry for the Obikin Big Bang. Desperately trying to finish the rest before posting date (real life has not been kind to me in the past month)! 
> 
> Please check out the [lovely, adorable artwork done by](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6883183) [edenwolfie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/edenwolfie/pseuds/edenwolfie). Thank you so much for drawing for my fic! It's one of my major motivating factors as I try to conclude this ridiculous tale.

_"If thou remember'st not the slightest folly_  
_That ever love did make thee run into,_  
_Thou hast not loved."_

— _As You Like It_ , William Shakespeare

~~

Few wonders in the galaxy can match the beauty of Felucia during the summer solstice. The longest day of the year marks a new beginning for this planet of eternal warmth, celebrated by the most vibrant display of native flora that decorate every inch of the tropical jungle, from lush leaves of sky-reaching canopies to the damp, grassless earth beneath.

Passionflowers extend their bright, lance-shaped petals, ornate like the jeweled crowns of kings, while vines of bleeding hearts dangle between moss-coated branches, attracting small, feathery pollinators that rival their crystalline vibrancy. Even the most shadowed curves and crooks of ancient trees shelter fragrant, night-blooming orchids and glittering Birds of Paradise—too stunning to be true and certainly must bear poison in their thorns.

But the Felucian elders do not warn Kenobi and Skywalker of the Birds of Paradise and their noxious thorns. Instead, it is the angel-tipped begonias with their ice-blue petals and golden spores that cast fear into the hearts of the small, reptilian villagers.

“They roam like creatures, forming blankets over the soil overnight and disappearing just as quickly. We cannot tell you which regions to avoid, because we simply do not know where the wind has carried their seeds.”

“And what are the consequences if we do fall victim to the poison?” asks Obi-Wan.

“One whiff of their pollen can drive a being mad with lust, a slave to his or her most basal of needs.”

“Does a cure exist?”

“Only time, and the repeated completion of the task,” the elder coughs meaningfully.

The cruiser carrying Ventress has crashed among the densest canopies of the Felucian jungle, and no aphrodisiacal flower is going to deter Anakin and Obi-Wan in their pursuit of the Sith apprentice.

“We thank you for your concern,” Obi-Wan responds politely, “And we will take these cautions to heart.”

With a curt nod, the two Jedi depart from the gates of the small, rustic village, traversing the jungle quickly and with efficiency, the black tower of smoke from the crash site their only beacon to the Dathomirian Sith. Sparing only a fragment of his concentration, Anakin notes the passing foliage from the corners of his eyes—yellow orchids and broad dew-laden leaves, speckled lilies budding from stagnant puddles, spidery vines that snag his trailing robes, perturbing his otherwise perfect equilibrium.

No icy-blue begonias, as far as he is concerned, but the Felucian elder did warn that these flowers propagate in swarms, sprouting like weeds in areas easily overlooked like damp ditches, rotting trunks, and shady corners below canopies—

“ _Sith-hell!_ ” comes a strangled cry behind him, and Anakin breaks so abruptly, nearly catching himself off balance as he halts on a high, arching branch.

He looks around to find Obi-Wan gone, lost somewhere among the dense greenery. Anakin leaps to the soil beneath, worry knotting in the depth of his gut.

“Obi-Wan!” he shouts, “Where are you?”

“Anakin!” his former Master returns, his voice much closer than before. “Stay where you are!”

Anakin shoves impatiently passed the foliage obstructing his path, only to find the older Jedi sitting inside a damp, murky ditch, surrounded by a flowerbed of icy blue. Obi-Wan sneezes, the sudden movement casting a small dust storm of golden pollen into the air around him.

With tremendous effort, Anakin keeps his expression blank. “Are you hurt, Master?”

“I-I don’t think so,” Obi-Wan stammers, an uncharacteristic fear flickering in his stormy blue eyes. He smiles weakly, almost apologetically at his former Padawan as he smudges a blotch of yellow high on his right cheek. “I am afraid these are the very flora that the elder has warned us about.”

Not often does Obi-Wan falter so haplessly from grace, and even rarer is Anakin allowed to bear witness. The younger Jedi watches his flustered Master with an unholy glee thinly veiled by a mask of calculated concern. He had privately hoped—against beleaguering morality and daunting odds—that something like this would happen to Obi-Wan.

How much time must pass for the effect of the pollen to take hold? Will a faint blush spread across Obi-Wan’s cheeks, reaching beneath his ginger beard, his neck, and even his shoulders and chest? Certainly, Obi-Wan will try to preserve his dignity and muffle his soft moans with the back of a gloved hand, but not even the perfect Jedi is above the most basal of human needs when intensified a thousand fold. Anakin just needs to be patient, unassuming, and _approachable_ when that resolve of steel finally crumbles, and Obi-Wan would beseech him with stormy, lust-filled eyes and the word ‘please’ hanging ever so tantalizingly on the tip of his tongue.

Obi-Wan’s wellbeing would still be Anakin’s primary concern, of course. The poison must be washed off before any real action can be taken. Anakin would carry his former Master in his arms, whispering words of comfort as the older man trembles weakly against his chest. Once they reach the nearest river bank, Anakin would gently lower Obi-Wan to the wet pebbles beneath, unclasping the older Jedi’s robes with gentle reverence while batting away whatever resistance his former Master might muster. Once Obi-Wan is bare—flushed and beautiful beneath the setting sun—Anakin would undress himself with efficiency and haste, aiding his former Master into the cool, rippling water.

Obi-Wan would cling to him— _Force_ , Anakin can dream—face buried in the younger man’s shoulder, chest pressed against chest, his helpless erection prodding along Anakin’s muscled thigh. Anakin would grip Obi-Wan beneath the water, twisting his wrist in measured strokes without teasing too much, bringing Obi-Wan to completion as quickly as possible.

 _Repeated completion of the task_ , the Felucian elder had said, so there would be plenty of opportunity to draw out the most desperate of pleas and wanton of moans from; Anakin need not to rush. Obi-Wan, above all else, deserves to feel good.

Anakin sighs inadvertently, the brief pipedream alone is enough to make him go from flaccid to full salute in mere seconds. He shifts from foot to foot, discreetly repositioning his robes to conceal his arousal. The two Jedi watch each other for what feels like an eternity, every muscle in their bodies string tight from anticipation.

Eventually, Anakin breaks the silence. “You seem fine.”

“I feel fine,” Obi-Wan responds, moving gingerly beneath in the mostly settled pollen. “Strange. Maybe the begonias do not have the same averse effects on Jedi as they do on Felucians.”

Obi-Wan rises to his feet, brows furrowed in thought as he brushes at the yellow dust tinting his clothes.

 _How disappointing_ , Anakin sighs, his mind very lucidly in the present now. “Perhaps it is still best to wash off the pollen. Come, Master, I hear rushing water ahead.”

They reach a riverbank just as the sun touches the gray silhouettes of distant mountains, casting splendid stripes of red and orange to the stormy underbellies of clouds. Anakin finds a resting place on a smooth, flat rock as he watches Obi-Wan strip by the pebbled beach, wading into the glistening water before him.

Obi-Wan halts once the surface obscures his lower half, scooping up water with his palms and splashing his flat stomach, his defined chest, his smooth shoulders faintly dusted in freckles. The setting sun behind him limns his copper hair with a soft halo of gold.

Beautiful, yet unobtainable, like sunbeams in your palms, Obi-Wan washes himself in silence and with quick, thorough efficiency, wholly unaware of Anakin’s aching heart inside his too-tight chest.

~~

Perched high atop a jagged rock with the morning sun illuminating her ashen skin, Ventress waits for Kenobi and Skywalker in her hidden alcove behind a small waterfall.

“My, my, Obi-Wan,” the Sith apprentice greets in a seductive drawl, “And here I was thinking you’ve forgotten all about me.”

Ventress rises to her feet, arms open and palms raised, as a small army of battle droids emerges from the shadowed corners of the cave, firing their blasters at the Jedi duo. Obi-Wan’s scoff is barely audible as he lights his weapon, completely indifferent to Ventress’ taunting, flirting—or whatever in Sith-hell the Dathomirian is trying to play at—Anakin can never tell.

“And here I was hoping for a more creative ploy since the last time we met.”

With a vicious snarl, Ventress ignites her twin sabers, lunging at Obi-Wan as she did during numerous battles prior. Anakin lets his former Master handle the Sith apprentice, resigning himself to grunt-work as he thrashes his way through the line of battle droids.

Ventress attacks, and Obi-Wan matches her every move, red and blue clashing in a violent but intimate tango. Obi-Wan is holding himself back, Anakin can tell. It’s one of his favorite tactics against Ventress—allowing her the upper hand in the beginning and prolonging the duel for as long as necessary, until the Dathomirian’s movements become frenzied and careless, her frustration overshadowing her judgment and training. Only then, does the experienced Jedi switch to offense.

But Ventress is not taking the bait this time, enjoying their skirmish way too much for the lack of results so far.

“Oh, how I missed you, my darling,” she taunts with a savage smile, “And how I will miss this when I finally kill you.”

“Do not be so sure of yourself, Ventress,” Obi-Wan replies smoothly, turning to deflect the rays of harsh red crashing down on him. “Unbecoming of an apprentice to succumb to pride.”

With a strangled cry, Ventress hoists herself away from the Jedi, allowing both of them a brief respite to regain their footing. A shadow falls over her cruel features, but it is not the same hatred and barely-contained rage that Anakin had anticipated. The young Knight watches with morbid curiosity as he overruns the last of the battle droids.

“I changed my mind,” Ventress says, circling Obi-Wan in an almost predatory fashion, her hips swaying in a sultry display. “Actually, I would like to keep you, chained and stringed up, naked, _begging_ …”

Anakin inwardly gags, his stomach stirring with equal jealousy and disgust. With a face like hers, Ventress is better off casting nightmares to younglings than to seduce _Anakin’s_ Master in such a vulgar manner.

“Jedi do not beg,” is Obi-Wan’s only response, but Anakin can sense a touch of uneasiness in his voice.

Ventress flashes a vicious smile, before throwing herself at Obi-Wan once more. “Then, I accept your challenge, Jedi!”

They strike and parry with even greater intensity than before, Ventress’ eerie grin almost as unsettling as her uncharacteristic poise. “How I would love to have you as my pet—a collar around your neck, a ring around your cock.”

She turns, her black robes rippling as she dips to her knees, her low swing forcing Obi-Wan to jump, staggering backwards as he struggles to maintain his balance.

“I would have you tied to my bed, blindfolded and gagged, spread open and tantalizingly helpless as you beg for release…”

A strike to the left sends Obi-Wan dashing to the right, bemusement etched in his features as he licks at his drying lips. Ventress’s gaze falls almost immediately to the Jedi’s parted mouth.

“And I would put that mouth to good use, especially that clever tongue of yours. When I’m done with you, pleasure and pain would be one and the same.”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, inhaling deeply as he clears his mind. Once stormy blue returns to durasteel gray, Anakin feels nothing but calm and determination resounding within their shared bond.

Another brief skirmish ensues before Obi-Wan finally disarms the Sith apprentice, but Ventress is not depleted of her tricks just yet, using the Force to shove against Obi-Wan’s chest before _twirling_ into his open arms. With her back against the Jedi’s front, Ventress takes a hold of Obi-Wan’s wrists, wrapping his arms around her smaller frame in a mocking embrace.

Obi-Wan struggles weakly, unsure of how to respond to their surprisingly intimate position. Ventress shifts in his hold, turning to nuzzle against Obi-Wan’s beard and pressing her lips against his chin.

Anakin disentangles himself from his pile of droid parts, the cybernetic hand holding his lightsaber shaking with rage. Before he can free his Master from this wretched ensnarement, Ventress separates herself from Obi-Wan, leaping over Anakin and towards the exit where a ship has arrived to aid her escape.

Obi-Wan and Anakin chase after her, only to see her retreating figure as the ship launches into the sky.

“Goodbye, my Obi-Wan!” Ventress shouts over the noise of the engine, her long dress sweeping in the wind. “Next time, my love, I will be sure to bring you to your knees. 

~~

In hindsight, Anakin has found their encounter with Ventress infuriating, but not entirely surprising. While his former Master is not strikingly handsome, he eludes a certain refined, sensible, and unassuming charm that seems to effortlessly draw the attention of female admirers. And Ventress—despite her cold-bloodedness and frightening exterior—is nonetheless a female, subject to the same desires as all other females, whose preferred bed partner happens to be those of the opposite sex.

So why should it matter if Ventress has a crush on Obi-Wan? So did Master Tachi and the Dutchess Satine—two fair-haired, gentle beauties whom both Obi-Wan had politely refused in the end. No way in Sith-hell would Obi-Wan fall for Ventress, considering the surfeit of options he has before him.

The memory of his former Master in the arms of Ventress plagues his sleep, but Anakin has little time to quell his nerves before a distress signal from Dagobah sends them rushing back to the Outer Rim. Anakin and Obi-Wan storm though the colossal Separatist spaceship, leaving behind a simmering trail of lightsaber burns and metal scraps. When they finally reach the control room where Grievous awaits, the Separatist General already has his weapons ignited, revolving his four lightsabers like the rotor blades of a grotesque helicopter.

“Take care of Skywalker,” he rasps to his minions, “Leave Kenobi to me.”

Anakin sighs as he detaches from the older Jedi, redirecting his focus to the small army of droids entering from a side compartment. He can never quite understand this ridiculous obsession with Obi-Wan that seems to rankle the hearts of their most fearsome enemies.

Anakin makes short work of the battle droids, soon rejoining Obi-Wan in countering Grievous. He blocks the saber aimed at his lower left, just as Obi-Wan fends off two to the right. Anakin huffs indignantly, as he falls in sync with his partner’s movements, swinging and dipping to the rhythm that Obi-Wan has dictated. Even with Anakin joining their battle, Grievous spares only one weapon to fend off the young Knight, appearing determined to impale the impertinent Jedi Master with his other three.

Following through on a wayward swing, Anakin manages to skid his weapon across the general’s chest plate, leaving behind a superficial trail of burnt black.

That captures Grievous’ attention, as the cyborg commander howls with rage, crashing all four of his weapons towards Anakin. The young Knight manages to deflect two, before the third disarms him. He slides onto the metal floor of the control room to avoid the fourth, turning onto his back only for the general’s durasteel foot to crush painfully against his sternum.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan shouts, faltering as Grievous takes advantage of this distraction, gripping onto Obi-Wan’s wrist and twisting until the Jedi drops his saber.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan gasps, wincing in pain.

But instead of dealing the final blow, Grievous releases his weapons as well, connecting his metal appendages to Obi-Wan’s forearms and nearly lifting the Jedi so he may be at eye level.

They stay like this for a long time, with Obi-Wan trapped in durasteel hands and Anakin beneath a durasteel foot. Meanwhile, Grievous stares at Obi-Wan long and hard, as if trying to decipher his soul through the windows of blue-gray eyes.

Grievous is the first to speak, rasping through his inorganic lungs in an uncharacteristically measured tone. “Never in half a millennium have I felt my heart beat with such life, such fervor inside this metal cage that suddenly feels too small.”

Obi-Wan grimaces as the grip along his forearms tighten. “P-Pardon me?”

 _“With eyes that glow like winter’s dawn break,_  
_Pure and tender as the hope of spring._  
_My heart rises to your whispered name,_  
_For thee, Obi-Wan, my soul dares to sing…”_

Grievous rambles on through his two-hundred-and-eighty-two-line epic poem directed towards Obi-Wan, halting only to cough the sickly buildup inside his artificial lungs. Still trapped beneath a metal foot, Anakin is paralyzed with shock, cringing as the cyborg general layers praise upon praise of Obi-Wan’s outward beauty and his inner strength, while he himself laments the loss of his own body, which makes it impossible for him to feel even the most desperate touches or the warmest embrace.

“ _Cyborgs can love, I promise it is true._  
_Allow me one chance, Obi-Wan,_  
_and I will be honored to show you_.”

“This is not happening,” Anakin releases a strangled cry, squeezing his eyes shut as he summons an abandoned lightsaber. “I’ve had enough! I’m not listening anymore! Shut up! SHUT UP!”

With a reckless swing, Anakin amputates the metal appendage trapping him, rolling onto his side and springing to his feet. Grievous roars as he teeters off balance, forced to release Obi-Wan in order to break his fall. An explosion in some distant part of the space ship causes the entire chamber to shake, just as Aayla Secura’s voice floods through Anakin’s receiver, urging them to abandon the ship.

Anakin grips onto the older Jedi’s elbow, pulling him away once they both retrieved their lightsabers. “We have to go, Obi-Wan! This whole ship is going down!”

They race down the corridor of the collapsing ship, sparks flying in all directions while steam pours from ruptured pipes. Grievous’ voice echoes hollowly against the durasteel walls, whirring like the wail of a tortured ghost.

“Don’t leave me, my love! Come back! Come back!”

Only when Anakin and Obi-Wan reach the safety of the Republic’s cruiser does either of them dare to address the unsettling events that have unfolded in the past few days. Breath still heavy from their narrow escape, Obi-Wan is the first to speak, just as Anakin drops tiredly onto the thin medical cot beside his former Master

“I’m afraid the Felucian begonias are not without their averse effects, after all.”


	2. Love lifts us up where we belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And when I said halves, I meant three parts..The Obikin chapter is surprisingly the hardest for me to write, so please bear with me as I struggle my way through this silly story. Thank you for those who commented so far! Happy that the humor is enjoyable!

“My eyes are up here, Rex,” Obi-Wan sighs as he and Anakin settle in the cruiser destined for the peripheral planet of Abafar, where Senator Amidala awaits for an important negotiation that soon will determine the fate of the tumultuous sector.

“My apologies, General Kenobi.” The clone captain bows his head, a faint blush tingeing his tanned cheeks. “You are truly stunning, and I cannot help but to be drawn to the soft bristles of your beard, the elegant line of your neck, your broad shoulders and your firm torso beneath your robes—well-muscled but not excessively so as to overshadow the elegant, litheness of your movements. You walk as if clouds cushion your feet, Sir, but know that I will exert my greatest efforts in keeping my unwanted gaze to myself, despite the tantalizing allure of your muscled thighs, fitted to perfection within the dark fabric of your trousers, graciously alluding to the swell of your firm buttocks, which fill each and every one of us with—”

“I—Uh,” Obi-Wan interrupts, although he appears completely at a loss to what to say next. Anakin, tucked in a distant corner of the cruiser, groans in revulsion.

“My sincerest apologies, Sir,” Rex blushes even deeper, “I will cast my eyes demurely to the toes of your boots from now on, but even the thought your strong feet enclosed by the thick red leather is enough to overwhelm my heart with a warmth that exceeds the burning intensity of the brightest stars.”

“It’s alright, Rex,” Obi-Wan returns stiffly, discomfort evident in his voice. “Why don’t you go sit by Anakin? There are plenty to discuss since our last encounter with the Separatists, I am sure.”

Obi-Wan lifts his hand with the intention of squeezing Rex’s shoulder in a comforting, supportive gesture, but decides against it in the last second. He smiles tightly at the clone captain instead, before making his way towards the cockpit.

Rex sighs, disappointment evident in the slump of his shoulders and the bow of his head. Anakin offers a supportive clap against his armored back once the captain drops to the seat beside him.

“Don’t worry about it, Rex. Obi-Wan knows it’s not your fault.”

“This is unacceptable for a soldier, let alone a captain.” Rex shakes his head in misery. “I cannot even put to words the shame I feel for my previous behavior.”

“I’m sure Ventress and Grievous are thinking the same, if it makes you feel any better,” Anakin half-snorts. “Everyone is affected by the pollen, even the Separatists who are supposed to hate Obi-Wan.” A part of Anakin wishes they would return to hating Obi-Wan.

“The Separatists too, huh?”

"Oh, yeah," Anakin elaborates with brevity and thinly-veiled disgust, not particularly keen on reliving the atrocity, "Ventress spilled some really sick fantasies, and Grievous was one pentameter away from kriffing proposing!"

“It is strange that the mere pollen of a plant can have such potent effects," Rex remarks after a brief moment of consideration, "And perhaps more strange that you, Sir, are the only one unaffected.”

Anakin heaves a heavy sigh, eyes fixed to the vacant spot previously occupied by Obi-Wan, the remnants of the older Jedi's Force energy still strumming in the air. “I know, I know. I just don’t know why.”

~~

“Anakin! Obi-Wan! I'm so delighted that you both are able to make it!”

Padmé appears happy— _too happy_ —as she traverses the landing dock in her velvet Senatorial gown, greeting Obi-Wan with a tight embrace.

 _A hug?_ Anakin seethes. Padmé _never_ hugs, at least not in public, and certainly not with someone who _isn’t_ her husband!

She clings to Obi-Wan for much longer than necessary, even after Obi-Wan has dropped his hands helplessly to his side, following the customary three pats on the back appropriate for any friendly embrace.

The smile Padmé wears is radiant when she finally detaches herself from the Jedi Master, her hands lingering on his shoulders before sliding playfully down the lengths of his arms.

“This is a very important negotiation, and the allegiance of the entire sector depends on today. We are all overjoyed that you are willing to help.”

“It is the will of the Council,” Obi-Wan returns a polite, but warm smile, “And the duty of the Jedi to protect democracy at all costs. It is an honor to be invited to such an important event.”

“Do you have a speech prepared?”

“I do.”

“Wonderful!” Padmé clasps her hands together, before brushing a finger to her perfect hairline, casting her eyes downwards almost demurely to the collar of Obi-Wan’s tunic. “We thought it would best for you to wear the traditional garments of the Abafari people when you address their elders, especially considering the coinciding of their autumn equinox.”

“The Abafari traditional garments,” Obi-Wan furrows his brows, “If I remember correctly, most of them are very skin-tight and revealing. My entire torso would be bare, essentially.”

“And what better way is there to show the Abafari people that we respect their culture?” Padmé happily insists. “Come, Teckla will present you with the clothing we have prepared.”

The Naboo Senator watches Obi-Wan leave, a coy smile on her lips as she tilts her head to unashamedly admire the pert buttocks of the retreating Jedi. She sighs happily before following in suit, refusing to afford Anakin a passing glance.

~~

The negotiations were a resounding success, the Abafari people vowed their loyalty to the Republic, and Obi-Wan spent three days parading in ridiculous cutout leather, to _almost_ everyone’s delight.

After his debriefing, Anakin returns to their shared apartment to find Obi-Wan standing by the windows, thoughtfully observing the bustling capitol. The sun has set but Coruscant is still bright, the airways luminescent with the headlights of speeders that cast strings of gold to the shadowed backdrop of the sprawling cityscape. Obi-Wan’s pensive features appear almost ethereal in the afterglow of the shimmering metropolis.

Anakin relaxes into their couch, crossing his hands behind his head and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. The fact that no complaints regarding feet-on-furniture fill his ears suggests to the young Knight that something is indeed amiss.

“Master Yoda,” Obi-Wan begins without preamble, before Anakin gets the chance to ask. “Today, during meditation, he touched me.”

Anakin’s stomach drops to his feet. “ _He what?!_ ”

“It was the most fleeting of touches,” his former Master explains with uncanny calmness, “Beginning at my knee and then slowly curving upwards, halfway to my inner thigh. It was gone the moment I opened my eyes.”

Anakin wails, burying his face into their sofa cushion. “You should be divulging this to a healer—possibly the authorities—not me!”

“No, Anakin, I have a point, I promise—and not to simply fill you with dread.”

“Then, make it, _please_!”

“At first I was alarmed,” Obi-Wan continues in a placating whisper, as if any moment now, the younger Jedi might bolt like a startled horse. “My skin goose-pebbled under the touch, while my shields barely suppressed the panic ringing in my ears, but then—a realization suddenly entered my mind.”

Obi-Wan halts, brows wrinkled in bemusement, before a small smile slowly forms on his lip. “I can’t believe I am saying this, but it is truly amazing how much you have grown.”

Anakin detaches his face from the sofa cushion long enough to glare at the older Jedi in utter incredulity. “What?”

Obi-Wan rounds the coffee table to occupy the vacant end of the couch, and their suddenly close proximity is almost too much for Anakin to bear. The young Knight fights the urge to flinch away when Obi-Wan grips firmly onto his right shoulder.

“The side effects of this pollen, no one—not even Master Yoda—can resist, but you, Anakin, you have not succumbed to them. I can think of no other explanation but the guidance of the Force, and the Force truly must have chosen you."

“Yeah— _I guess_ ,” Anakin responds, indignant and resigned all at once. Usually, the younger Jedi is boundlessly appreciative of whatever praise he manages to extract from his former mentor, but something about this does not sit well. Obi-Wan is still talking, however, leaving him little opportunity to decipher his enigmatic emotions.

“And you are the only one with whom I can speak,” Obi-Wan smiles mirthlessly, “Who still treats me with any modicum of normalcy. Just you, R2, and C3PO, unfortunately.”

Anakin’s lips curve to a sidelong grin. “Are you calling me a droid?”

“Of course not,” the older Jedi laughs, brisk and melodic like dawn's break. “I am merely voicing my gratitude.”

“Because I’m _not_ in love with you like everyone else?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Ha!” Anakin throws his head back, a sharp, barking laugh echoing in the silence around them. “Don’t flatter yourself, Obi-Wan. Just because some flower dust has the whole Senate, Council, and Separatist alliance head-over-heals over you doesn’t mean that I won’t see you for who you truly are, _old man_!”

Obi-Wan smiles—open, genuine, and impossibly rare—and Anakin all of a sudden finds his breath treacherously uneven.

“I know, Anakin. Thank you.”

Anakin continues to laugh, despite a growing part of him that eternally aches. 

~~

Inside the dining hall, Anakin places his food tray in the vacant spot next to Ahsoka, his Togruta Padawan appearing deep in reverie, sighing dreamily as she stares off into the foreseeable distance. Anakin follows her gaze to the opposite corner of the canteen, where Obi-Wan is engaged in conversation with Aayla Secura and Quilan Vos, the latter casually reaching for Obi-Wan’s behind only to receive a indignant smack on the back of his hand.

“Not you too, Snips!” Anakin groans miserably, the spiced meat suddenly tasting like sawdust on his tongue. “He’s actually old enough to be your father. It’s disgusting!”

“What?”Ahsoka protests. “Everyone’s doing it! Master Yoda even encourages it!”

“What do you mean he encourages it?” Anakin narrows his eyes.

“During meditation,” Ahsoka explains, “He told us to take advantage of this opportunity and explore longing, desire, and other sentiments forbidden for Jedi. We won’t get another chance like this, to do so without any real risks.”

“Because once Master Allie finds a cure, everything will be back to normal?”

“Exactly.” Ahsoka nods, appearing as if she has divulged something truly discerning. Anakin groans into his cup of caf.

“I can’t believe the Council in their _boundless wisdom_ unanimously decided that _Yoda_ would be the best Master to lecture about love and desire.”

“Yeah,” the Padawan purses her lips in a pouty smile, “I wish all my classes were taught by Master Kenobi. He would be _amazing_ at it.”

“Ahsoka…” Anakin grumbles a warning, to which the Togruta concedes, apologizing hastily.

“Okay, okay, _sorry_! It’s just incredible—you know? This feeling.”

“What feeling?”

“Desire,” Ahsoka says without meeting his eyes, “It’s just so incongruous with logic. I keep telling myself that Master Kenobi is more than twice my age and that he is a Master while I am a mere Padawan. He would be betraying his vows if he were to fall for a child like me, not to mention breaking the law in several sectors. Everything I am feeling now—it’s because of the Felucian begonias. It is not real. I do not _actually_ love Master Kenobi. My mind keeps on telling my heart this, but my heart…it won’t listen.”

“Oh,” is the only response Anakin can gather. Something rouses in the vague area of his stomach—perhaps where his soul should reside—and the young Knight remains adamant on ignoring it fully.

“I am happy when I see Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka continues, pale blue eyes steady in a tender kind of sad, “But it also hurts a little. It scares me too, but I don’t want it to go away either, because I’d feel so lost and empty without it. Desire—I can see why the Council finds it so dangerous now.”

“Well, I’m glad this pointless exercise isn’t a waste of time for you,” Anakin says as flatly as he can.

Ahsoka nods, cheeks pressed to the heel of her palm, lips pursed in thought. “But I do find it strange that you’re resistant to it all.”

“You’re not the only one,” Anakin sighs contemptuously.

“Don’t you feel _anything_ for Obi-Wan?” Ahsoka shifts in her seat, turning so that her inquisitive eyes finally meet his. “Like— oh, I don’t know—the way he talks in his crisp, fancy accent that makes him sound _so_ smart, or the way he tries to project himself as the perfect Jedi, but he still makes some of the funniest, driest remarks. Or the fact that even though he is a member of the Council now, he is just as humble as any Knight, just as approachable and kind too. And what about his clothes, his bland, wall-colored robes? Don’t you find his boringness endearing?”

Anakin hinges his jaw, failing to conjure a response. His Padawan continues to press, stirring his panic and thinning his nerves.

“Well?” Ahsoka insists.

“It’s none of your business what I think of Obi-Wan!” Anakin fails to swallow the thunder in his voice. “Just—drop it, okay?”

Ahsoka smiles almost knowingly, returning her attention to the unwitting Jedi Master. “The way I see it, there are only two logical explanations. Perhaps, you truly are immune to the begonias.”

Anakin rolls his eyes. “Alright then, what’s the second one?”

“Or maybe, you’ve always been in love with Obi-Wan, and that’s why you don’t feel any differently now.”


	3. All you need is love!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry for my awful hiatus! Real life has kept me busy, and perhaps, after reading this chapter, it would seem evident as to why it took forever for me to write! Tying stories together has never been my forte (as I inconspicuously shove away all my WIPs) so hopefully this reads natural and satisfying..again, thank you so much for those who have commented and left such kind, supportive words! You guys have kept this fic alive!

“I have wonderful news, Anakin!” Obi-Wan calls to his former Padawan as he enters their shared apartment, the smile he wears carrying equal excitement and relief.

And it is in that exact moment Anakin decides that nothing about the past two weeks has been fair.

Anakin loves Obi-Wan, deeply and infallibly, wholly and without abandon. He has loved Obi-Wan his entire life—from savior to mentor, brother to friend—but he never truly recognized the nature of this love until very recently, when over a decade of stoicism and rigorous discipline has been jettisoned miserably out the window.

In all consideration (and given the way he is), Anakin supposes he has done remarkably well in keeping in his guilty, misguided affection at bay. He has always loved without condition, from the tender affection he showers Padmé, to the exuberant pride conferred to his Padawan, to even the forlorn, ageless devotion to his late mother that reaches beyond the ephemeral tendrils of life. 

But his love for Obi-Wan, it is something else altogether, a love that transcends his very being—intrinsic as the courage in his heart, vital as the air in his lungs, infinite and true as the divine caress of the Force.

For three years now, Anakin has been on his best behavior, stifling his desires until they festered like demons, and it is simply unfair that suddenly _everyone_ from the Sith to the Jedi gets to touch, kiss, and love Obi-Wan without consequence, simply because of some damned begonias which deprives them of all moral responsibility. 

If anyone should love Obi-Wan—even unrequitedly—it is Anakin, and Anakin is determined to make his sentiment known.

“And I must say, the news comes at an opportune time,” Obi-Wan continues as he shrugs off his robe, wholly unaware of the steady determination teeming inside his former Padawan. “The thought has entered my mind many times, that perhaps the Temple would benefit as a whole, if I were to simply lock myself away. So you can only imagine the magnitude of liberation I had felt when— _Mmph!_ ”

The tailing end of the sentence is muffled by Anakin’s lips against Obi-Wan’s, the contact lasting merely a second before the older Jedi shoves his younger friend away.

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan gasps, eyes widening. “Explain yourself!”

“I would like to kiss you,” Anakin says without apology, taking a tentative step forward only for his former Master to stagger back.

Obi-Wan parts his lips wordlessly, before pressing them to a stern, grim line, and this simple, stilted reaction is all it takes to send Anakin into a tirade.

“It is unfair!” he protests hotly, “That Ventress has managed to turn your duels into some primal courtship ritual, and that Grievous still writes poetry for you, that he floods through _our_ holocomm! We have politicians willing to start wars for you, soldiers willing to die, and don’t even get me started on the _kriffing_ Jedi Council. After Yoda— _touched_ you—he in his _infinite wisdom_ decided to include you in his lazy teaching plan and encourage Padawans to _explore_ the sentiment forbidden for Jedi. I sat with Ahsoka for an hour, talking about attachment and desire and love—which is bad enough on its own without it all being about _you_! And I know this isn’t your fault. It’s not like you _purposely_ fell into those begonias after the Felucians warned us not to—but it’s not fair, Obi-Wan, that the poison grants _everyone_ the privilege to love you when—when I am the one who loved you first.”

Throughout the entire duration of Anakin’s diatribe, Obi-Wan watches his former Padawan with nearly faultless stoicism, the stony silence between them almost deafening once the young Knight’s outburst tapers to an end. A long moment passes before Obi-Wan finally responds, his eyes impenetrably gray and his voice distant as if emotionally, he is determinedly absent. 

“I have just returned from the medical ward,” the Jedi Master reveals, “Master Allie at last has found a cure.”

_Oh._

Never has Anakin been so acutely aware of his own heartbeat.

“All the better then,” he says with finality, now that the felinx is out of the bag. The younger Jedi inhales deeply and gathers his courage, feeling the heavy significance of the words on his tongue and knowing that he can never retract them. “For a long time, I have loved you. More than a brother, a friend. More than anyone I have ever known.”

“You love me,” Obi-Wan repeats carefully, expression indifferent except for a small, rueful quirk of his lips. “But you did not before—before the begonias.”

“I simply did not act on my desires,” Anakin confesses.

Obi-Wan nods as he processes these words, eyes casted downwards and focused on nothing in particular. Anakin watches him nervously, feeling equally at a loss while his former Master jostles through his silent, internal strife.

“I cannot say any thoughts of this nature has crossed my mind,” Obi-Wan eventually admits, his voice a low murmur. “You were my Padawan, my student since you were a boy. I should—I must step out for a moment. Excuse me.”

With these parting words, Obi-Wan slips out of their apartment, leaving Anakin to deliberate the gravity of his actions alone.

~~

A tremor along their Force bond jolts Anakin awake, and the young Knight immediately winces in pain, rubbing gingerly at the aching muscles along his neck. He takes a moment to adjust his eyes to the darkness, realizing that he is in the living room of their shared apartment, perched stubbornly at the dinner table. He must have fallen asleep waiting for Obi-Wan to return.

Anakin extends his mind and feels something hazy and undefined on the other end of their bond, the warmth and energy undoubtedly Obi-Wan’s but marred with an uncharacteristic smoke of uncertainty that sends Anakin rushing out the door without a single shred of hesitation.

The young Knight bolts down the empty streets of the capitol, the moon above large and orange, hanging low in the murky red sky. How much longer until dawn break? Anakin does not know, but not even the creatures of the Coruscanti backwaters appear to be active in the waning hours of the night.

Eventually, within the shadows of a grimy alley, Anakin finds Obi-Wan slumped against a cinderblock wall—hair disheveled, robes wrinkled, and reeking of Corellian rum. 

“You came!” Obi-Wan exclaims with a too-wide smile, the edges of his words slippery and slurred.

“Of course I came,” Anakin hisses at the older Jedi, “You called for me.”

Obi-Wan blinks up at him glassily, fumbling in his hands a brown glass bottle that is nearly empty of its contents. “I suppose I did.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Not necessarily.”

Anakin reaches for the bottle, grunting in frustration when Obi-Wan refuses to relinquish possession easily. “Did you plan on finishing this entire thing yourself? You’ve had more than enough.”

“No, Anakin, leave it be!” The Jedi Master swats at his former Padawan, a touch of petulance accompanying his grievances once Anakin finally wrenches the bottle away. “I have it under control. Don’t waste it!”

Anakin snorts and hoists the bottle to his lips, taking a hefty swig with the fervent efficiency of a man trapped on a desert planet. Only after he swallows the last drop does he grimace at the bitter burning in the back of his throat. “The kind of night I’m having, I deserve some of this too.”

Obi-Wan concedes with a sigh, fluttering his eyes shut as he leans his head against the wall of the alley. “I suppose that’s fair.”

Anakin tosses away the bottle, dropping beside to where Obi-Wan is sitting, and for a long moment, they rest in silence with only the passing of a single speeder disrupting the stillness of the foggy night. 

Obi-Wan’s shoulders stiffen before a low chuckle escapes his lips.

“What’s so funny?” Anakin asks.

“Nothing in particular,” Obi-Wan collects himself, although the remnants of laughter linger in his voice, “I simply thought of something amusing.”

“Would you like to share?” Anakin grumbles, mildly annoyed but mostly exhausted.

“ _You_ actually,” replies the Jedi Master, “A memory of you, not long after you became my Padawan, when you insisted that we watch a holofilm far too terrifying for a youngling.”

“Ugh,” Anakin groans. The rest of the story is too memorable for his liking, in part due to the humiliating nature of all adolescent mishaps, but mostly because of the countless retelling in the years that followed.

“Even as a child, you had been prideful and stubborn, insisting that you were not affect at all. But the next morning, I found you in soiled sheets, because you were too afraid to leave your bed for the fresher during the night.” 

Obi-Wan is laughing again, the rare open kind with his head thrown back and crinkles at his eyes, and Anakin would have reveled in the brisk, melodic sound if it weren’t for his stupidly injured pride. 

“You were ten years of age, I believe—insufferably annoying, but brave and kind at heart. You were still just a boy.”

“And so were you,” Anakin adds, almost petulantly.

“Pardon me?” Obi-Wan furrows his brows, his face more expressive in his insobriety. “I was a Knight, well in my twenties. I was not a boy.”

“Then, how come you took me to that brothel when I was eleven, thinking it was an eatery,” Anakin snorts, “ _A Hole in Space_ , missed that innuendo entirely, did you, Master? You might as well have been a boy, as clueless as you were.”

“Ah, a poor lapse in judgement.” Obi-Wan ducks his head, redness rising to his cheeks. “I should not have brought a youngling there. I was unfit for a guardian.”

“That’s not true, and we both know it.”

“But look at this predicament we have found ourselves in,” Obi-Wan turns to him with a sad smile—chastised and self-depreciating—the kind that stirs worry inside Anakin’s stomach. The young Knight’s first defense, however, has always been his crudeness. 

“ _Rancorshit_.” He rolls his eyes. “You think this is all because you accidentally took me to a brothel when I was eleven? I am capable of making my own decisions and taking responsibility of the consequences. I am not a youngling anymore.”

“You are not.” Obi-Wan’s smile recovers some of its usual shine. “You have grown to be a wise Jedi, a brave warrior, a good man—I have always been aware, but now, I wonder, if I have also missed it some how.”

He pauses briefly to study Anakin’s face, eyes roaming brazenly from the blue of Anakin’s eyes to the curve of his cheeks, to his parted lips and the strong line of his jaw. 

“Tell me,” he continues, “When did it start? When did you begin to—love me?”

“I have always loved you.” Anakin keeps his voice steady. “In all ways I can possibly love you—my Master, my brother, my friend. And now, more—more than that.”

“I was unaware,” Obi-Wan frowns with a twinge of regret.

“Of course, you were,” Anakin retorts, “I didn’t want you to be aware, but now, I do.”

“For a Master to deepen his bond with his learner, especially for self-serving reasons, it is a brazen abuse of power. The Council stands firmly on this rule, as do I." Even with a cloudy mind, Obi-Wan manages his usual calm rigidity when speaking of the Jedi Code. Anakin, on the other hand, cannot afford such tactfulness or grace, even in sobriety. 

“Well, good thing you are not the one deepening the bond,” the young Knight responds bitterly, “And good thing that I am not your Padawan anymore. Besides, none of this should matter because you will never see me as anything other than a youngling who still wets his bed after a scary holofilm.”

Anakin did not mean for his words to be baiting and expected nothing short of solemn disapproval from the his former Master, but a ringlet of panic coiling through their shared bond catches him by surprise. Bemusedly, he turns to Obi-Wan, just in time to witness over three decades of strict Jedi discipline crumble to dust. The nearly entire bottle of Corellian rum must not have helped either.

“I—” Obi-Wan swallows thickly, all efforts to salvage his depleting shields seemingly lost as Anakin widens his eyes in realization, body teeming with both wild hope and boundless uncertainty. “I will have to admit that there has been one instance—one brief moment after your knighting, when we were on Alzoc—where I—”

The Jedi Master fails to complete his sentence, shame coloring his cheeks as clumsy words catch in his throat. “After we returned to Coruscant, I meditated for three days. The thought has not entered my mind since, but—it horrifies me to remember it now.”

“Alzoc.” Anakin searches his mind for the circumstances surrounding the mission. Barely a year has passed since they were trapped in the iced trenches of the winter-storm planet, their seemingly futile efforts lasting an entire week before the Separatists finally relinquishes control of their outpost. Anakin remembers pelting hail and endless snow, sheets of ice as hard as durasteel beneath his feet.

“In a moment of weakness,” Obi-Wan struggles through his confession, “I found myself—wishing to be closer.”

“Because the entire planet is a barren wasteland,” Anakin says, “And we were freezing our asses off.”

“It is possible that I wished for more than warmth.”

It takes a second for Anakin to fully comprehend the significance, as Obi-Wan beside him flushes to an impossible shade of red, appearing as if he would rather die than to continue this conversation. A feeling of immeasurable warmth—too sharp to be happiness, too frantic to be hope—washes over Anakin, at the idea that perhaps at some point in time, Obi-Wan had desired him too.

“And you are horrified because of _that_?” the young Knight interrupts, “Because of one instance where you wanted to be close, when we were trapped on a frozen planet unsure of whether we will live or die?”

Stormy blue eyes finally rise to meet his, surprised at the sudden outburst. Anakin fills the silence with laughter, refusing to aliquot the time and peace for Obi-Wan to regret his confession.

“Then, allow me to share all the times when _I_ wished for something similar, in much less trying circumstances and without feeling even a fraction of the guilt which seems to plague you.” 

The young Knight leans closer, lips curved to his most satisfied grin as he studies the look of genuine surprise on his former Master’s face, finding the rare display of flustered uncertainty both comical and endearing. Where does he even begin? Their sparring practices perhaps, whenever fanciful swordsmanship regresses to a wrestling match of flushed skin and tangled limbs, because one cannot wholly depend on saber techniques when civility is never an enemy’s primary concern. Or perhaps, the countless nights spent on distant, Sith-forsaken planets, when room cannot be afforded for two separate cots beneath their tent, and Anakin has to garner every shred of self control _not_ to wrap his arms around his Master’s smaller, sleeping frame. Oh, and how can he forget the day of Obi-Wan’s promotion to the Jedi Council, when a fantasy had intruded his mind that would haunt him for weeks to come, of his former Master bent over is council chair—eager, willing, and desperate for release.

“And sometimes, you could simply be sitting in our apartment,” Anakin continues his unashamed revelation, “Sipping caf and reading the holonews with your brows furrowed and eyes focused, and I just want to bury my face in the tufts of hair behind your neck, or kiss along the beard on your jaw.”

“Anakin!” Obi-Wan admonishes, although he sounds more shocked than offended, and perhaps, a touch breathless. Not often does the lauded Negotiator appear at a loss for words. Anakin grins amusedly, the Corellian rum in his own system perhaps granting him the courage to continue. 

“Oh, I am not finished. Remember the day when you fell into the begonias? I was ready to be of assistance—more ready than I would like to admit—to carry you to the river and ease you into the water. I wanted to kiss your lips and taste your heated skin, but above all else, I wanted to take care of you and make you feel good, show you every possible pleasure that I am capable of, and perhaps, even more.”

“Anakin...” Obi-Wan repeats his name as a warning this time, the strain in his tone evident despite his tremendous effort to reach serenity. “Please stop talking. I acknowledge your point fully.”

“Do you?” The younger Jedi adamantly inquires, “I can still sense your unease.”

“Because it is incongruous to compare my folly to yours,” Obi-Wan frowns.

“Because it is acceptable for me,” Anakin hisses, temper flaring like a summer storm, “But not you—perfect Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, virtuous and pure like driven snow.”

“Because I was your Master,” Obi-Wan corrects, frustration and a touch of hurt hidden behind the slightly raised decibel of his voice, “And you were my Padawan. It was my duty to guide you, to teach you the way of the Jedi, to hold myself as an example.”

“And you did,” Anakin insists, “Impeccably and relentlessly so. Are you afraid that you somehow unknowingly influenced my decision? Do you think I found you _seductive_ the way you bested me in every trivial argument, or when you chastised me for every mistake during our spars despite my best efforts to impress you, or denied my every request to leave the Temple together for a short holiday or any mode of fun. Trust me, Obi-Wan, nothing in your mannerism or actions suggested that _you_ wanted anything beyond friendship and camaraderie. I am the one who wishes for more. Acknowledge my autonomy, in the least.”

“I—I do acknowledge your autonomy,” Obi-Wan says, sounding defeated. “It is just, given our history, it is difficult for me not to feel responsible.”

“I am not your Padawan anymore,” Anakin reminds him.

“I am aware.”

“And there are no rules against bonding between two adults, two Jedi.”

“I am also aware.”

“You can say no if you want.” Anakin ignores the delicate ache prickling inside his chest. “But only do so if you do not love me in return.”

“Anakin...” Obi-Wan is watching him with such quiet sadness, such tender worry behind gentle blue eyes, that Anakin feels selfish in making these demands and putting Obi-Wan in a situation that would bring him unnecessary pain. But for so long has Anakin kept his guilty affections hidden, and now, he simply cannot brave the burden any longer. 

Obi-Wan licks his drying lips, seemingly hesitant to continue, although not so much as searching for his words but debating whether he should voice them at all. 

“I have taught you everything I have to teach you,” he manages through a small, anxious smile, “Although much is left in this universe for you to learn—for both of us to learn. There are aspects of our way of life, of the Jedi Code that we might never agree upon, I have accepted that long ago, but—for whatever that may transpire between us this point and on—know that it is never because I do not love you.”

A long moment passes before Anakin fully grasps the meaning behind these words, and the young Knight livens considerably despite a part of him that remains logically guarded, as if what Obi-Wan had said was too good to be true. “Does this mean—are you—”

“And perhaps,” Obi-Wan winces, attempting to downplay the significance of his response in the wake of Anakin’s renewed vigor, “We should revisit this topic when clearer minds can prevail.”

“But you—you’re _not_ saying no.” Anakin cannot help the ridiculous smile forming on his lips, excitement and profound relief coursing through every inch of him previously string-tight with uncertainty. 

"That is accurate, I suppose," comes the dignified reply, and the exhilaration that follows trounces that of any hard-earned victory Anakin has experienced. In what universe can _not saying no_ bring such effortless joy to the young Knight? Only because this is _Obi-Wan Kenobi_ he is dealing with. 

“And you’re not devising some sneaky ploy to escape the conversation entirely?” Suspicion invades his thoughts, but even his accusing glare cannot shield the warmth of a smile in his voice. “To never bring this up again if I allow you the respite?”

“I do not believe I can escape even if I wished to,” Obi-Wan sighs, rubbing gingerly at his temples, “Grant me the decency of a few hours of sleep, and a tablet to ease this headache I can already feel rising, and we can continue this conversation another time.”

“Tomorrow,” the younger Jedi insists, “Promise me.”

“Tomorrow,” Obi-Wan agrees, as rosy pink swells at the edge of the uneven Coruscanti skyline, the dark maroon night fading against the first rays of sunshine reflecting fantastically over the glistening metropolis. The Jedi Master’s smile appears tired but genuinely content, as the orange sunrise tinges his copper hair auburn. “But alas, tomorrow has already come.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/feedback are loved as always <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Obi-Wan is #Irresistible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6883183) by [edenwolfie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenwolfie/pseuds/edenwolfie)




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